


The Sound of the Sea

by WelpThisIsMyLifeNow



Category: Undertale, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Grief, Mentions of War, MerMay, Mermaids, More tags to be added!, Music, Siren, butt more mentioning than getting into it, i guess?, i never thought I’d be talking about WWII in a mermaid fic but here we are, mermonsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:13:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24099403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsMyLifeNow/pseuds/WelpThisIsMyLifeNow
Summary: Mermay 2020!Grieving the death of your grandfather, you go out for some time alone. After falling off a dock, you make a new pal..._______________________________________________________I originally posted a Mermay story last year as a one-shot, but I've been thinking about it a lot lately, and I'd like to turn it to a full-fledged story!
Relationships: Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 76





	1. Night Diving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I featured some nautical terms in this chapter, so for those who don't know and/or have English as their second language, I've included some links to help explain.  
>    
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S.--
> 
> [here's](https://youtu.be/z_TTLS_oHR8) [some](https://thegraduate.bandcamp.com/track/captain-boomer) [songs](https://youtu.be/Lr7fzTPwaJk) [I](https://youtu.be/SNbm-WyLsTo) [used](https://youtu.be/QVmeEodkaj4) [for](https://youtu.be/UuukkmLGT90) [musical](https://youtu.be/TG5bgUc4sKU) [inspriation](https://youtu.be/OWrISHF5L08) [(there](https://youtu.be/kelhD-VgWCk) [are](https://youtu.be/ZcFvINTXSyA) [a](https://youtu.be/B6UiKcBJKiE) [lot.](https://youtu.be/0DZsl80-7Rk) [I](https://youtu.be/6k3x9tOFbnk) [like](https://youtu.be/-cDejVyqrJI) [songs](https://youtu.be/xNTwYzoFzck) [with](https://youtu.be/4c7bO0megfQ) [water](https://youtu.be/h2zMIjxBtJk) [themes.)](https://youtu.be/TPhnOKmhbBw)

You walked down to the river.

It was as simple as that.

You had found this particular route down to the river after an especially adventurous evening walk. Most of the lanes off the forested road were private, narrow drives through dense trees that snaked downward to million dollar McMansions. Rich, abrasively snooty out-of-towners took up residency in your hometown for small section of the summers, all of them trying to get a view through the forest of the river until the first leaves of fall dropped, when they’d flee back to warmer climates. Even though they shared that view with hundreds of other people, they spent their millions to feel like they were all alone on their little sect of Ebott paradise.

Millions of dollars, spent on a summer feeling.

Unlike the snowbirds, you and your family were one of the year-rounders; the kind that held their roots firm and deep against those that had attempted to entice your land from under you with promises of great swathes of cash. Your family’s house (a small single-floor ranch, built by your great-great grandfather) was at possibly the tallest point on what was called Driftaway Road _—_ a seemingly endless stretch of winding pavement that ran North-South, parallel to Ebott’s river. Every house rested on a hill that slightly tilted down to the East as the land dropped towards the steep shoreline.

Not too far off West from Driftaway laid rolling farmland, painstakingly carved out from the forests decades ago. For the year-rounders of the town, you typically had one of three options for work: farming, fishing, or search outside of town. You’d opted for the third choice, but came back to your childhood home often—just about every weekend. Your grandfather—a retired[ harbormaster](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harbourmaster) of the town _—_ still lived in the house with your parents, and they appreciated you aiding in the upkeep. You never minded; your grandfather, even in his advanced age, was quick with a joke or a story about one of his many adventures on the sea. Although he assured your siblings and cousins that everyone was loved in their own special way, your relationship had always been especially close: you were the one that spent hours with him learning nautical knots, snuck out at night with him to practice sailing guidance by the stars, and was the one he counted on to groan when he told a particularly bad pun. You were his “little sailor.” Although he’d clearly been slightly heartbroken when you’d moved to the city (instead of following his footsteps and turning to the sea for work), he seemed to respect your wish to make a life for yourself where you could. The weekend visits could, and did, suffice for you both.

You had been driving down from the city one such weekend that your grandfather had, unexpectedly, passed away. The doctor seemed to think it was his natural time _—_ he was quite old, after all. You, in your grief, couldn’t help but disagree.

Your world became a blur for a few weeks as the funeral came and went. Your grandfather had been a bit of a legend in the town—with a record low number of deaths at sea under his watch as harbormaster, practically the whole town came out to his funeral. Another blow came soon after: despite being there for generations, your parents would have to sell the family home. Influenced by the ever-encroaching numbers of wealthy estates in the area, the cost of keeping the home was getting far too high, especially without your grandfather’s monthly aid. They’d done the best they could, but they could not fight the tide of the changing times.

You did your best at the time to hide your heartbreak _—_ your parents were clearly devastated in their own right _—_ but from then on you resolved to spend as much time there as you could before the end, eager to soak in every memory and feeling of safety the tiny house provided. You’d spent this particular Saturday helping your parents sort through items in the basement, traversing through dust and cobwebs until just before sunset. You’d decided to call it quits for the day and take a walk, reminiscing in the familiar feeling of exploring the woods like you had when you were young. You’d always been curious—likely inherited (or maybe instilled) from your grandfather’s sense of adventure. It _occasionally_ got you into trouble, but you hadn’t been arrested (yet), and the city, too dangerous to wander, had left you feeling stifled. You needed this walk.

You thought you knew the various paths and lanes of Ebott like the back of your hand, but you’d yet to notice this one before. If it was summer, you likely wouldn’t have risked going down and being yelled at (or worse) by a skuke _—_ the local curseword for the rich summer residents, based on a local bird that comes in the summer, shits all over the place, then leaves _—_ but the chill that had reigned present in the air for the past month signified it’d likely be just a little more time before the summer population returned.

It was now the end of spring, and it was raining. You liked the rain in that odd way that some people do, depressing the emotions but giving a sense of calm in return. You had a loose sweatshirt on, oversized and cherished. Crammed in the pockets you carried anything you could ever need: a cell phone, a pen, and a tiny spiral notebook your grandfather had once given you, the metal whirls hanging off the end with wear from mindless toying. The chill of the drizzling rain set a slight coldness to your bones, but focusing on the music pumping through your taped-together headphones was enough to distract you, giving you a bit of mental warmth.

You walked down the unfamiliar path, savoring the way the clouded murky sunlight hit the trees that surrounded the lane. Without much surprise, you noted it looked like no one had been down this way in months: branches sprawled bare in the middle of the dirt road and untrimmed trees hung low, likely to scratch any kind of car that attempted to pass. _Definitely made for a skuke._

It stretched on for quite some time before hitting a surprisingly square bend in the path. Sitting prominently at this bend was a gnarly old tree, dark and still leafless from the winter. This was… slightly bizarre, if not a little disconcerting, as all but the most stubborn of trees had revived in full foliage, even with the extended cold. _It must be completely dead—they’ll probably tear it down when they see it next._ You walked up to the tree, taking your time, listening to the oddly rhythmic squeaks of the trees as they rocked in the soft wind and dizzying rain. You touched the tree, lightly, once. The wet bark wasn’t exactly a pleasant sensation to your fingertips, but you felt important to say hello to the poor thing anyway.

You ventured farther, past the tree, smiling at the small rush of adrenaline of trespassing. Before you sunk a long, steeply sloping hill. The lane down the hill was lined with different kinds of trees and brush, blocking the view of what lay in the field ahead. Your mind’s eye automatically assumed a gaudy McMansion, even filling in what it’d likely look like—all dramatic whites and blacks, sleek fixtures, cold architecture.

You were holding your breath as your feet took you downward, ready for the trees to part and reveal the eyesore-

But there was nothing.

Ditto.

Squat.

Technically, there _were_ things there. Grass, sky, a small bit of sandy beach, a few old barrels with strange-looking red X’s painted on them ( _maybe_ [ _bait barrels_](https://www.google.com/search?q=fishing+barrels&tbm=isch&ved=2ahUKEwic_sClvb_iAhUKNt8KHdLYD_gQ2-cCegQIABAB&oq=fishing+barrels&gs_l=mobile-gws-wiz-img.3...8282.10298..10792...1.0..0.169.686.2j4......0....1.........35i304i39j30i10.aJhyBCVMAS0&ei=rdHtXNzzKIrs_AbSsb_ADw&bih=768&biw=1024&client=tablet-android-samsung&prmd=simvn&safe=active#imgrc=vIBBqyTfAf7ZCM) _?)_ , a few overturned lawnchairs, and what looked like a rotted dock.

You walked over to the dock and evaluated it for a moment. Even in the waning light of a clouded sunset, you could see that many boards had either blown off or decayed over time and dropped into the waters below. It was a surprisingly long dock; although there were some bigger boats closer to where the river emptied out to the ocean, most of the docks this deep upstream were short and stout, perfect for housing the little fishing boats that sputtered around the different river branches.

You were going to leave your surveying at that, but just as you were about to turn back, something odd caught your eye.

As if glowing out of the encroaching darkness, your eyes caught sight of something white. Focusing in, and you could see what looked like… a piece of paper, tacked to one of the wooden[ pilings](https://www.google.com/search?q=dock+piling&safe=active&client=tablet-android-samsung&hl=en&prmd=isbvn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjG1vjOvr_iAhVOh-AKHQQ7B0QQ_AUIBygB&biw=1024&bih=768#imgrc=G7G6DDeBFlWBaM) at the end of the dock?

Although signs themselves attached to pilings weren’t unusual—typically proclaiming that the dock was private, or the standard “[ SLOW NO WAKE ](https://www.quora.com/What-does-no-wake-zone-mean)” warning—they were always large, metal, and bolted. From what you could see, this looked instead like a small notebook page, soaked from the weather, just barely clinging to the post.

The adult, rational side of your brained warned you against investigating. _It’s dark, it’s wet, and people don’t know where you are. It would be foolish to go there-_

The natural, deep-down nature of your soul interrupted with a rousing yell: _Adventure! Mystery! Adrenaline!_

You looked out into the darkness, the gray-green waters pushing agitatedly against the steely sky, the hiss of spray against the docks an almost animalistic threat. This sight was _nearly_ enough to let the rational side win, but…

What would your grandfather do?

Despite knowing that decisions made out of grief were rarely wise, you took a careful step onto the dock. It was sturdier than you expected, the boards without much give or groan as you placed your full weight on. The aging of the boards additionally seemed to help your footing; instead of the dangerous slickness that young, smooth wood often caused when wet, the roughness of the boards kept each step you made out further from land more and more sure. You still made the conscious decision to move slowly, not wanting to push your luck.

Painstakingly, you made your way to the very last piling at the dock’s end. Part of the board closest to it had disconnected from the rest, resulting in a large gap between you and your goal. With just a _bit_ of sweat on your brow, you were able to stick your feet reliably on the very edge of the landing, _lean_ over and successfully tear the soggy paper from its posting. You had to push against the piling to get yourself upright, but were able to take a safe step back from the edge, treasure in hand.

The paper was practically pulp in your hands, but still intact. You pulled out your phone and turned on the flashlight to read.

_“Just wait.”_

You stated at the piece of paper for a moment before shutting your light off.

_Well, that was anticlimactic. Just wait for wha-?_

You shifted to make your way back, but instead of returning towards the shore, you felt yourself go backwards. In a gut-churning moment that stretched on for a century, you felt your world flip before water so cold it was practically painful embraced you. The shock of it knocked the wind out of you, instantly leaving you breathless as all sound and vision was taken over by water. Instinctually, stupidly, your mouth opened to reclaim air, but instead filled with [brackish](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brackish_water) water as the river rushed to filled the void. You waved your arms through the water as time dragged, attempting to push yourself up-

-and then felt yourself being hoisted, almost as if the sea itself had grown arms to push you forward. All at once, time seemed to fast-forward to its normal march as you found yourself thrust against the small patch of sandy shore next to the dock. You coughed abrasively, salty water stinging your lungs and throat as you struggled to expel as much as you could. Though black dots danced in front of your vision, your eyes instantly swung towards the river.

Even in the darkness of nightfall, even with your vision swimming, you could see something there in the water.

Something that looked almost human.

You coughed out something that was akin to a “hey!” as you tried to stand. The thing ducked back underwater, and you beat your chest as you quickly tried to speak again.

“Wait-” you hacked, “no, I-” more brutal coughing, “I didn’t mean to scare you!”

Before you could attempt more coaxing, you saw a tail flip out of the water. It was, by far, the largest fish tail you’d ever seen.

_I… I don’t think that was a fish._

True to your 21st century nature, you attempted to pull out your phone for photographic evidence in case it came out again. Much to your immediate dismay, you realized your phone was soaked—along with your notebook. You gave a low groan, stashing your ruined items back into your pockets.

You ran a hand through water-matted hair, trying to process what had just happened. Was… was that really real? Were you a fool for thinking that _thing_ that rescued you… could have it really been…?

You cleared your throat again before speaking once again, yelling out to the river. “I’ll be coming back again! I swear, if you’re real, I don’t want to hurt you! I just want to say thank you!”

You stood silent for a moment, watching over the river, the waters as normal as if you’d never fallen in the first place. As if you hadn’t almost died, as if you hadn’t just been saved.

You trudged back home, the stinging rain against your face the only steady reassurance that this wasn’t a dream.

The forest and pathway remained relatively silent in your absence, save for the patter of rain and consistent churning of water from the river. The blanket of rain held heavy, muffling all the sounds of daily life—of conversations being had, of the scratch of thick marker against paper, of[ buoys](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buoy) clanking against their tethers, of limbs slicing in and out of water’s surface. Hours passed by, and as the world hushed against the full draw of night, the rain lessened before it, too, became silent.

Some time later, new sounds arose as the darkness of the world began to fade. Birds chirped, insects buzzed, fish writhed against the surface of the water in pursuit of more bugs. People in their houses rising, boards creaking as they made coffee, and whispers of awakening. The regular silence continues of the world in daily motion.

Soon, sound is made by a door opening and closing, footsteps on pavement, then on leaves and dirt.

Early morning sun, streaking through the trees, cast the morning dew and leftover rain into a glittering trail before you. As you got steadily closer to the river, you noticed a light mist beginning to collect in the air. Sure enough, as you moved past the bend and descended into the clearing, a curling fog clung to the riverbed. Although you’d typically find such weather to be ominous, the light of dawn cast the fog into a sweet pastel glow. If it didn’t involve forcing yourself out of bed so early, you would’ve liked to come at this time more often.

Sweatshirt still in the wash, you’d had to opt for a messenger bag to carry your things. As you approached the dock, you opened up the flap and pulled out a new notebook (you’d spent half the night drying your old one out, but it still wasn’t there yet), as well as some duct tape. You tore a page from your notebook before ripping a piece of duct tape free, then haphazardly stuffed your items back into the bag. Securing the piece of tape to the paper, you unstrapped the bag from your shoulders and tossed it aside onto the grass.

Now came the difficult part: how were you going to get the paper onto the piling? The board you’d used to lean over was now down at the bottom of the river and you were nowhere close to being able to reach.

Upon studying it for a moment, you turned and began to search for a large branch. Quickly spotting one (the lawn, similar to the path leading here, visibly hadn’t been cleared of debris in quite some time), you retrieved the duct tape before snagging another piece. You then, gently as you dared, pressed the paper and stick together with the extra tape.

You deftly climbed back onto the dock, feeling no less wary than the night before. You carefully inched yourself along before making it as close as you could, extending the stick towards the piling. It took some maneuvering, but you were able to transfer the paper from your stick to the wooden pole. You gave it a few jabs to press down the tape, but quickly retreated the moment you could.

Finally safe on dry land and mission accomplished, you surveyed the river. Other than insects and the fish that preyed upon them, the river was largely inactive. Certainly no person-sized beasts breaching the water.

You cupped your hands around your mouth and yelled as loud as you dared this early on a Sunday: “I left a letter! Thank you again!”

You grabbed your bag, and without looking towards the water, you made your way back home.

Unseen by you, just below the surface, purposefully empty sockets read your scrawling handwriting:

“ _I hope I didn’t scare you too badly. I’m not even sure if that note was meant for you, or if you can read this—but I hope so._

_I’d like to talk to you. I imagine you can’t pop out during the day—can you come out at night?_

_I understand there’s a lot of risk talking to someone, but I assure you, I mean you no harm. I promise. I do owe you my life, after all._

_I’d like to find some way to repay your kindness. So, if you can, I’d like to meet you after sunset. If not, I understand, and I won’t come back again._

_Thank you, truly.”_

In a language you would not be able to hear, said in a way that you would not be able to see, a voice muttered.

* a promise, huh?

More silence for an extended period of time, a standard Sunday—the only difference being a noticeably absent chair at the Sunday dinners you were so used to.

Thankful you were no longer living at your parents’ house full-time, you bid your parents goodbye at the crest of nightfall. You had to store your car at the top of the lane, but imagined it would be perfectly fine on the side of the road—runners and hunters parked around the place all the time.

You made your way down the path, the old tree an oddly welcome shadow to you. Your phone still sitting in a bag of rice in your car, you borrowed a small lantern from your parents—one of your grandfather’s, the kind he’d like to secure to the end of his boat on particularly dark evenings. It wasn’t quite dark enough to use for navigation yet, but it still felt reassuringly nostalgic in your hand.

Trudging down to the dock, you carefully hoisted yourself up and sat on one of the more sturdier looking sections. You grabbed a book out of your bag (one that you wouldn’t miss too much if you went overboard again). You set your lantern up, flicked it on, and began to read.

You were there for close to an hour or so (in truth, you had gotten a little lost in your book) when you decided to call it quits. Nightfall had descended fully into night by this point, so you figured the thing wasn’t coming. _Fair enough. Well, I tried._

You shut off your lamp (the thing was electric, and you didn’t want to be electrocuted should you fall in and smash it open) and waited for a moment for your eyes to adjust before standing up.

“going so soon?”

You nearly fell off the dock a second time, thankfully knocking into a sturdy piling instead of going sideways. Whipping around, there was no one on the dock—but instead what looked like a face peering out of the water. You likely wouldn’t have been able to see this if it wasn’t for the two glowing pupils giving a slight eerie hue to their face.

“Christ on a bike, you are real!”

“in the flesh—well, in the scales.”

 _It’s real and it makes terrible jokes._ You surveyed its face—or at least, what little of its face you could make out. You didn’t _see_ scales. It’s face appeared smooth, and… wait, did it not have a nose? Or lips?

You suddenly felt your stomach drop as the reality hit you. _Oooooooohkay, I’m talking to a thing without lips. Am I really here? Is this grief-filled delusion? Did I actually drown, or hit my head when I fell-_

“you wanted to talk?” it prompted. You found your mouth suddenly dry.

“You don’t… have scales,” was all you could mumble back. It gave a low chuckle. You attempted to snap yourself out of it. “Okay. Okay. Uh. This feels like I’m going crazy, or like I’m on candid camera or something. How do I know that’s not a mask, or…?”

“huh. didn’t think i came here to prove to some human i exist.”

You blinked, your mind rushing. You shook your head as if trying to physically dislodge all the thoughts crammed in. You then rubbed your temples. “Right. Sorry. I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’re pranking me or not. Whatever… you are, you saved me.”

He was silent as you took a breath, watching you steadily. You ran a hand through your hair, feeling a little thrown, but your heart no longer beating quite so hard in your chest. _Okay. Whatever, worst case scenario this is a delusion and I go get help. Best case scenario I’m talking to a…_ you couldn’t even form your mind around an option. _...a creature of some sort, and I’m being really rude. Shit, I didn’t_ actually _expect anything to happen here._

You cleared your throat, looking at him once again, trying to push down the tide of discord within you. “Sorry. Again. Uh. I really just wanted to say thank you, and ask if there was anything I could do to repay what you did for me in any way.”

He was silent for a moment more. You wondered for an instant if he was getting ready to take off, but instead, he turned his head to look at you more critically. “that’s it? really? no giant net, no hidden camera, no three wishes, nothing?”

You stared at him blankly. “Three wishes? Why would I ask that?”

Even in the darkness, you could see him grimace. “buddy, you have no idea what kind of weird things humans come up with.”

“I could only imagine. For the record, I don’t have a hidden camera. I don’t even have a working phone after falling in.”

“i know.” he then tapped the side of his head. “this old skull of mine is sensitive to electromagnetic things. it’s how i know you’re not hiding anything in the trees, either. which is why i think it’s okay to do this.”

Before you could ask exactly what he meant, he went under the water. You were about to try to call out to him to get him back, when a loud groaning from the boards of the dock to your side startled you. You fell back, your butt thankfully (if not painfully) hitting wood.

“Holy hell-” you began, before being struck mute by the sight before you. The creature was somehow now on the dock, just a few feet away from you, practically within touching distance. In the darkness, you could see what looked like a humanoid skull, boney neck, spine, rib cage and arms, and a massive tail from his torso down. You felt your lungs stop working.

_This is not what Disney told me mermaids look like what in the everloving fuck-_

His grin seemed steady and plastered on his face. It was mildly terrifying. “not what you expected, huh? i usually get that.”

“H-how many humans have you met?” You were then struck by a thought. “And… how the hell do you know English?”

“oh, y’know. met a couple here and there. they tend to get a little… capture-friendly when they see us. but over time, we’ve learned a few languages. some choose not to, but i figured it’d make for a good joke now and then.”

“Who is we?” you asked, unable to keep your eager nature at bay. “And how do you communicate normally?”

“other monsters—merpeople, if that’s what ya’d like to call it. we have our own way of getting a message across; hard to speak with a mouth full of water, y’know?”

 _Does that mean he clicks like a dolphin, or moans like a whale?_ You figured it’d be rude to ask. You wondered how he was speaking at all without a discernible throat, among a thousand other questions you had. You did your best to push them down.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sure you get this exact same thing all the time. Here I am, bombarding you with questions instead of trying to thank you-”

He gave you a wink. “nah, it’s okay. it’s pretty cute.”

You felt your face explode into blush as you were once again drowned with questions. _what the fuck, what concept of cute could they possible have, how do they even-_

He gave a loud gut-laugh at your expression. “hey, kid, i know i’m pretty scary looking, but jeeze—no need to die on me.”

“I… can’t actually see you very well, to be honest. Not to assume, but I figure you have better night vision than I do? Maybe I should-”

You sat up, leaning forward to turn the lamp on. Before you could turn the switch, you felt a boney, wet grasp around your hand. It wasn’t harsh, but startled you nonetheless, a blunt coldness racing up your skin. He seemed to notice, and took his hand away, those glowing eyes seeming fierce in the darkness.

“heh. sorry, kid. anyone could see us from a mile away. best stay in the dark for now.”

Despite your dismay at the sensation of wet bone against your skin, you gave your best understanding smile.

“Gotcha. Sorry, just trying to see if you were cute too.”

He gave a loud snort, and you could see him grinning with a slightly more relaxed nature in the darkness. For a non-human, he certainly had some nice social graces. Were monsters all like this?

“i suppose i could show ya something. ‘s probably alright.”

You opened your mouth to say no, he didn’t _have_ to, but were silenced by the lower half of his body giving a quiet, barely-there blue glow. The color then changed—from green, to red, to yellow, to a multicolored rainbow before fading into darkness again. You were in utter awe.

“That is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” you said with certainty. He chuckled, and his tail appeared to flick in amusement. _Interesting._

“it helps us blend in when we need to. it’s kinda automatic, but i can change it if i concentrate.”

“What about your eyes? I feel like they’d—oh.” Just as you were asking, his little glowing eye lights disappeared. _Creepy._ You gave a groan. “Man, humans are so _lame_.”

“not from my perspective. speaking of which, i know how you can repay me.”

 _Oops. He probably wants to get out of here._ “Right, sorry. What can I do for you?”

“i… need you to get information for me about a human,” he said slowly. You were immediately intrigued.

“Oh! That sounds easy enough. Can I ask why—is this a vendetta thing?”

“no,” he chuckled, “it’s an old friend. i’m just… worried, i guess.”

You were elated. If this _was_ a delusion, it was at least filled with wholesome adventure! Magic! Friendship! There were certainly worse ways to go crazy. You were _so_ down for this. “Alright! Sounds easy enough. Who is it?”

“i don’t know his last name, but he was the old harbormaster.”

Your stomach dropped.

_What the fuck-_

“The previous harbormaster? Of this town?” Your voice cracked, and you had to swallow hard to get down the lump in your throat.

“yeah. do ya know him?”

You felt like your head was spinning. _What the fuck. What the_ **_fuck_** _. My grandfather was hanging out with a fucking merperson—just what the fuck?? No, it can’t be. I can’t believe… Did he not trust me enough to tell me?_

“uh, kid? you alright there?”

“Can… Can you describe him?”

You noticed, distantly, that his eyes grew a little brighter. “he’s a funny guy. always had the best jokes. i didn’t have a name in your language when i met him, for instance, so he called me _sans._ ” You stared blankly, and he grinned wider. “‘cause, y’know, i was _sans_ name-”

You instantly burst into tears. Sans, in turn, looked immediately panicked.

“uh, it’s not _that_ bad a pun-”

 _It_ **_was_ ** _him. No one else had jokes that lame._

You wiped your tears the best you could, doing best to reel your emotions back. “He was my grandfather.”

“ _your_ grandfather?” he asked, and before you could answer, his tone dropped. “oh. _was_ your grandfather. i see.”

You wiped your eyes a few times and had to take a sobering breath before nodding. “I’m so sorry, Sans. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

“it’s…” He paused as you ran a hand through your hair. “it’s alright, kid. if you hadn’t come along, i would’ve had to've assumed, but never known for sure.” He then paused again, his eyes turning downwards towards the water for a moment. As you took a deep breath, trying to push back the wave of grief in your throat, you watched Sans's eyelights scan the river. As such a strange creature, sitting in the dim light of the evening, it was tough to read his expression. His look seemed to be more than melancholy—it was thoughtful, as if seeing something in the water you couldn't.

“What?” you prompted.

“it’s just… i feel a little odd, knowing a lot more about a stranger than they do me.” He then looked back at you, his expression a mix of warmth and sadness. “your grandfather talked about you a lot.”

You felt your eyes well up again. All you could manage to get out was a “Yeah?”

“yeah.”

You two sat in a heavy silence for a moment, the only sounds between you the sloshing of water against the dock and your occasional sniffle. Looking out over the water, you could see small lights here and there, winking at you from faraway docks. It was incredibly serene, as if the stars above wrapped around to the world below. You felt your heart pang in grief, but in that moment, it wasn’t so painful.

“Not to ask another favor of you… but could you tell me about your time with him?”

“sure, kid,” his tone laid with a kind gentleness. “but only if you tell me about him too.”

The sentiment felt like a calming hand over the bundle of stress in your heart. You smiled back wearily. “Absolutely. Do you mind me asking how you met?”

At this, Sans smiled wider, before his gaze flicked back out to the sea. 

“sure,” he said, his voice laden with the weight of memory, “it went like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!  
> Sorry to end on a weird, kind-of cliffhanger. This is essentially a re-write of a one-shot I did last Mermay, as I'm thinking of turning it into a full-fledged story!  
> I hope you all like this kind of story, and if you do, please let me know!
> 
> Thank you all for reading <3


	2. Night Diving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see things from a different perspective.

Thomas was never big on the title of “Harbormaster.”

He’d been in the water since the day he’d been born—there wasn’t a mother’s call or warning of storm that kept him from the sea, so long as he could help it. As soon as he was able to rig a sail with his own hands, he was slinking out of the parties of his parents to sneak down to the docks. He was a bit of troublemaker as a child—fisherman, gruff and worn by years of backbreaking work, only barely tolerated his constant questions and attempts (sometimes successfully) to sneak onboard. After his fifth successful boarding—which nearly got him tossed into the sea—the Harbormaster of the town, Captain John, took Thomas under his wing, with the promise that he’d stay out of trouble. Through Captain John, Thomas quickly went from kid-pirate to an expert of the sails and sea.

His parents, a couple that sat firmly on the upper echelons in the roaring 20’s, couldn’t drag him inside the house long enough to prepare him for the life of high society. Thomas would later wonder—if the gutting strike of the Great Depression hadn’t hit, would he have caved and become just as prim and tight-fisted as them?

As his family suddenly fell from riches into poverty, Thomas ended up taking up trade as a fisherman, starting just before his thirteenth birthday. He was a _good_ one at that, with large expanses of energy to spare and good practice in finding fishing spots from Captain John. Over the next decade, as the country plunged under the thumb of hunger— Thomas was just _barely_ able to his family, his town fed. He worked endlessly to keep his little corner of the world alive.

Then, with all the force of a wrecking ball on his paper-thin existence, WWII hit. 

Thomas had been a bit of a troublemaking child, and had kept the same jovial mischievousness as he grew into a young man—but underneath, quickly grew roots of responsibility and dedication that helped hold his world together. As he saw his parents’ faces—hardened and vibrancy muted by the struggle of the Depression—show fear at the announcements of war, Thomas knew he had to act. 

He enlisted in the Navy, doing all he could to keep his world safe.

Later in his life, he would only tell the funny stories of his time at war—of being caught, literally, with his pants down by several decorated generals during a poorly-timed bathroom break, of getting into a fistfight with the man who would later become his brother-in-law, of sweet-talking a week’s worth of extra rations (allegedly due to his “great jokes”). When asked about the bad times, he would brush it off—or, at most, during his rarely serious times, say “what we went through kept the world going.”

When Thomas returned from the war, he had offers of college, of work with some still-surviving connections through his father’s business—but instead, took quarter with Captain John, becoming an Assistant Harbormaster. His parents—softened by the tragedies of the past few decades—no longer looked down on Thomas for his profession. When Captain John, looking more pretzel than man after his years bending over bowlines, recommended Thomas to take over after his retirement, Thomas immediately agreed. He married, and then had kids, who then gave him grandkids. 

Thomas served proudly as Harbormaster for his town—but he always hated the title.

Of all the eyes he’d seen the sea with—as a child, with adventure; as a teen, with desperation; and as a young man, in war—he’d never felt a master of the sea. It had been beautiful, and life-giving, and horrifying—and he loved it, and feared it, and respected it all the same. 

During his years as Harbormaster, he saw those sides reflected at him again and again. There was the endless beauty of the sunrise at sea, the vastness of the water, the families—including his own—gathering happily on beaches or sitting starry-eyed at night. And there had been the horrors—of storms, of drownings, of late-night rescues failed and ships and faces sunk into blackness. Ever still, as much as the open water was his only true fear—he felt anxious until the anchor was aweigh.

He taught his children—and then his grandchildren—to love, understand, and respect the sea. His children eventually withdrew from the shore—opting for lives on dry land, likely overlogged with his own love of the sea. Most of his grandchildren did the same. There was one, though—he swore, not a favorite, as there were never any favorites with grandchildren—that held a special love of the sea like he. It was to this grandchild, with eyes that reflected the sea almost as often as he did in his own youth, he taught his special lessons to. They were the only one, after all, that listened.

It was the same day that he shared a particularly important passage from his youth—one he often murmured to himself, almost unconsciously, in times of stress—that his life changed again. 

Normally, when he taught his lessons, there was usually a fun—if not cheeky, or slightly inappropriate—limerick or sea shanty to go along with it. On this morning, though, as the morning dawn struck the skies fiercely, warning red, cautioning of the impending storm, his past sat close behind his eyes. 

He’d sat with you on the dock that morning, both of you looking out over the river. You—a child far more serious than he’d been at your age, but still with a streak of hidden humor—had gestured out towards the sky. 

“‘ _Red skies at night, sailor’s delight; red skies at morning, sailors take warning_ ,’ right?”

You _were_ right. But in a moment of rare seriousness—one with a gentle smile, and darkened eyes—Thomas decided that a more serious, important message needed to be departed. It was the first lesson, all those years ago, that Captain John gave him the night they had made their agreement.

 _“This lesson you'd do well not to forget—_ _  
__your life could be the one its wisdom saves_ _  
__at sea, when you're beleaguered and beset_ _  
__on every side by strife of wind and waves:_

 _Despite the best of maps and bravest men,_ _  
__for all their mighty names and massive forms,_ _  
__there'll never be and there has never been  
_ _a ship or fleet secure against the storms._

 _When kings upon the main have clung to pride,_ _  
__and held themselves as masters of the sea_ — _  
__I've held them down beneath the crushing tide,_ _  
__‘till they have learned that no one masters me._

 _But grace can still be found_ _  
__within the gale_ :  
 _With fear_ — _and rev'rence_ — _  
__raise your ragged sail.”_

That night there was, indeed, a storm.

Thomas got the rescue call just before 3 AM. His wife, sleepily, complained that one of the younger assistant harbormasters should handle it—he wasn’t supposed to be on call, but a backup. It was a tired, half-hearted argument, almost as old as their marriage. Thomas got dressed nonetheless—it’d been a small [fishing trawler’s](https://www.alamy.com/stock-photo-modern-small-red-and-white-fishing-boat-trawler-moored-at-broadford-59391337.html) distress call. It wasn’t a local one, either—likely a desperate crew, with recent poor luck.

Thomas did not blame them, even as he shrugged on his raincoat, and left the warmth of the house for the stinging cold of the storm. He knew what it was like to be desperate.

His house—the closest by far to the Harbormaster’s tiny shack of all this assistants—was just a minute away. In less than the next full minute he was already offshore, undoing knots keeping the Harbormaster boat tethered with practiced, mindless ease. Just a minute more and he was already departing the sheltered waters of the river, launching into the teetering black of the open ocean. 

He was, undisputedly, the best at finding lost boats. He had charts and currents mapped to his mind better than his own name—and he wondered later, should it have been anyone else, would they have found the boat so quickly? Would they have experienced the same thing he did?

It wasn’t long before he found the trawler. Desperate fishermen, not local, setting out in a storm—there were a few places, not too far from the mouth of the harbor, where the current got strong. Even if they had been paying attention to the charting maps—which, in a storm, and easily distracted searching for fish, they might not’ve—it was easy to miss the markers of the large rocks, and even easier to get pushed in by a storm-surged current. 

The small fishing boat was already a total loss, part of the wreckage quickly submerging into the depths, the other caught upright (for the moment) on the likely culprit boulder underneath. Thomas thought, at first, that it must’ve been in an awful state to begin with—from what he could see, it’d practically torn in half. He quickly radioed his position, already casting a roaming light to the blackened water, seeking flailing arms or the brightly-colored flash of life jackets-

But he found none.

Instead, among the stranded wreckage of the half of the boat still in view, he spotted something within a net, held up at the crest of the still-intact [boom](https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/proxy/aUqFOPHPLE4evSJT9ic1ps0uBtuUfGcCXR4UbYD0SVZoRmvo3e7Gv9sOxDmYaFZiTN__HM9xasOLvt9Mo7z2hAKeIAW03VE0KLqKFcqySEzQg05ZPCY_m9R8Q9Gs8pAN_nEWXGMSvpAmroU). At first, he saw tail, and thought it might be fish-

But then, spotted something… _not_ fish. And not _human,_ either.

It spotted him back, and began to flail more desperately. Lights, stuck in black sockets of a skull, flashed at him like sole stars in an empty night, seeming to contract and expand like pupils in fear-

Unthinkingly—perhaps stuck in the “save” mindset he set out in—he struck up his boat as close as he dared to the wreckage. Thomas was almost numb with disbelief as he grabbed his steel [shepherd‘s hook](https://www.overstock.com/Home-Garden/Closet-Storage/3268/subcat.html?featuredproduct=31263655&featuredoption=57156987&kid=9553000357392&ci_src=17588969&ci_sku=36007315-000-000&cnc=US&cid=248964&type=pla&targetid=pla-412071280796&track=pspla&gclid=Cj0KCQjwzN71BRCOARIsAF8pjfjYlacr28FDlDty5Dvk4HpBCdJ1uGVm8wBfcwxGPmRMlRoKD7hKHVUaAkorEALw_wcB) and tried to wrestle the net free. He eventually had to get his boat almost dangerously close—normally a near-fatal mistake that years of experience would never allow him to make—to cut the rope free from the rig. He nearly ended up overboard pulling the netted creature back up.

As soon as he had it on deck, he collapsed to the floor on his rear, his legs feeling like gelatin. The thing in the net merely stared at him. There were so many things his mind couldn’t process—the weird glow of what looked like sweat on its skull, the deep, haggards breaths it was taking _despite clearly not having any lungs_ under its bare, skeletal ribcage, the _human_ look of fear upon its face as it stared silently back at him, waiting for him to act-

Oh, right. He was supposed to be acting. 

“Is there anyone else?” his mouth asked, defaulting between his own large breaths of air. There was a beat of silence, and he couldn’t grasp enough of the situation to keep himself from wondering if asking was foolish—so he asked again. “I need to know, is there anyone else I can save? Or that even just _might_ be alive?”

The half-skeleton, half-fish pointed to the water, a boney digit extending outwards back towards the sea. 

Thomas immediately scrambled to his feet, the now water-slicked deck causing him a few false starts before he was able to hoist himself upwards. 

“Will you be okay? Will you live if I take some time to look instead of putting you right back in?” he asked, the memory-muscle of sea legs only _just_ keeping him upright as he stumbled back to the wheelhouse, grabbing his freehand flashlight. He looked back to the thing—it staring at him analyzing for a moment—before it nodded. Though the storm raged on around them, waves thundering and clattering against the side of the boat, he heard _it-_

“yeah.”

With that, he nodded, moving back towards the edge of the boat and regripping the [gunwale](https://azureblob.faecdn.com/cdn/bex/manual/i/1_1-a.gif) for dear life as his flashlight darted along the waters. A few eternity-stretching moments later, he spotted the flash of a lifevest, semi-concealed by the edge of the wreckage. He called out to the figure, but no response—possibly already dead, half-dead, or extremely lucky. As fast as he could make his tired joints work, Thomas quickly pulled the anchor up readjusted his position to the other side of the wreck. Hooked pole coming in handy again, he was able to hook onto the vest and pull it up. 

The man, against all odds, was still breathing, but only barely conscious, a large wound on his head. He’d likely been pinned between the current and the wreck—only his lifejacket had likely kept him from going under.

“Is there anyone else?” Thomas asked amidst his trek for the first aid kit. He looked back towards the thing—it was no longer watching him, but the man on board, a hard stare and grimace of anger on his face. 

“Hey!” Thomas called. The thing finally snapped back to him, fear taking back over—and he felt a quick stab of remembrance. The creature, eerily, wore the same expression as some of the soldiers, he’d seen—the same face _he’d_ likely had—seeing their first dead on board. His tone softened, but still commanded. “Right now, I _need_ to know. Any others?”

The thing shook its head.

“just him.”

Thomas quickly set to dressing the wounds the best he could, kneeling next to the man, before radioing out again—one survivor in need of medical aid, no others. The call was out to the coastguard—the order was to remain and keep him as stable as possible until backup arrived, and he could be transported safely.

A harbormaster assistant radioed in, saying she was up and running, and would get there shortly. It’d be a matter of minutes. Thomas signed off, moving back towards the man, making sure he was as secure as could be in the rocking boat.

Once steady, Thomas turned back to the thing on his boat. It was sitting still, watching him closely, wearily.

He nodded towards the man lying unconscious. “He capture you?”

The skeleton nodded. 

“Do you think it was on purpose? That he knew you existed?”

The skeleton paused, then shrugged.

“Do you frequent this area?”

The skeleton didn’t move, didn’t speak. Thomas took a breath—right. He was, in a matter of speaking, the enemy. Why would the skeleton-fish say anything to give away his position?

“I’d advise you to leave these waters. No one’s going to believe him, especially with a nasty bonk on the head like that. They’ll think he’s a certified _dinghy.”_

To Thomas’s extreme surprise, the skeleton-thing laughed. It looked just as surprised as he was. Thomas couldn’t help but smile.

“A creature of humor; I can appreciate that,” Thomas said, standing back up. The thing immediately tensed, and Thomas put a steady hand in an attempting calming gesture.

“Hey, relax. I’m going to let you go. Just give me a sec to get this old _bag of bones_ his breath back, and I’ll get the net open, then toss you overboard. That okay?”

The creature didn’t laugh this time, but, after a beat, nodded.

Thomas approached him, only drawing the knife from his belt at the last moment. The thing froze again, but at least didn’t panic, keeping still as Thomas cut the net open. Thomas then pocketed the knife in a large, obvious gesture before picking the creature up. He then quickly tossed it overboard.

He expected it to immediately disappear—leaving Thomas to question his own sanity the moment it was out of eyesight—but instead, popped its head above water, staring at him again.

“No need to stick around. Like I said, you better get going-”

“would if i could. but i can’t leave.”

Thomas stared. He was a simple man, but not a stupid man.

“Are there others you’re trying to keep safe?”

The skeleton didn’t answer.

Thomas took a deep breath, looking out towards the river. He’d have company soon…

He looked back towards the face in the water.

“He’s not from around here, so I can’t say I’ll be able to pull his boating permit, but I can at least keep an eye out for him to try to make sure he doesn’t come into these waters again. I’m not a mean guy, but I can at least be a real pain in the ass if I have to be. I’ll do my best.”

There was a silence again, filled in by the wind.

“why?”

Thomas stared back for a moment. Why _was_ he doing this?

“I’ve kept this town, these waters, my _home_ safe for as long as I can remember. If you live here, then it’s my job to keep you safe, too. It sounds like you can understand the feeling.”

The thing, again, said nothing. Above the din of the storm, Thomas could hear the tell-tale rumble of a boat engine. He turned, and sure enough—the second Harbormaster boat was moving at a fair knot towards him.

“Company’s coming. I’ll tell you what; I’ll be back here tomorrow, just after sunset. If there’s anything else I can help you with, come back then, and let me know. If not, just know I’m doing my best.”

The skeleton didn’t respond, so Thomas figured that conversation concluded. As the boat pulled up, Thomas heard the voice behind him.

“...maybe i can help you, too.” 

When Thomas turned around, the skeleton was gone. 

“And then what happened?” you asked, looking at Sans, stunned. He shrugged casually, as if he had been describing a trip to the market rather than a harrowing capture and escape. 

“came back the next day. sure enough, he was there. he seemed surprised to see me, and honestly, i’m surprised i went. but we struck up a deal—he’d use the incident as an excuse to move the channel. over the years he slowly moved the channels so they were further and further away from us. in exchange, i’d help on rescues when i could. it’s worked out pretty well since.”

Your grandfather. _Your grandfather._ Silly, happy, punny guy that he was, secretly working with a _merperson_. For _years_.

“Did… did that guy that captured you ever come back?”

“i think so,” Sans said. He slightly grimaced at the memory. “your grandfather didn’t really talk about it. i think, after he figured out i was just a kid at the time, he didn’t want to scare me.”

“You were just a kid when that happened?” You surveyed him—all bones, leading to a thick tail, shrouded in darkness. His face looked... well, like a skull. You supposed his voice was adult-like enough, but there was literally _no way_ to tell how old he was. “And how old are you now?”

Sans shrugged again unhelpfully, though there was a slightly cheeky edge to his smile. “dunno. sounds like a lot of effort to keep track of that.”

“Sounds like a lot of effort to save lives, but you do that too.”

Sans grinned at you, having the decency to look a little sheepish. “ya got me there, kiddo. guess that’s what tires me out so much.” You were about to comment further, when he spoke first, tilting his head in interest. “now, isn’t it your turn to tell me about him?”

“Alright, alright,” you said, holding up your hands to back off the subject, “I _suppose_ I could regale you since you saved my life. Mine won’t be as interesting to listen to as yours, though.”

Sans propped an elbow on his curled-up tail, eyelights bright as they looked over your face.

“i doubt it, kiddo.”

The two of you swapped stories about your grandfather throughout the night. Sans spoke of various rescues and dangerous or funny happenings, while you told all of your best memories—of him teaching you the ways of the sea, of all the places he took you and lessons he imparted, of the particular glint in his eye when he looked at you after making a particularly bad pun. It was incredibly cathartic, and as much as you were going to be absolutely wrecked at work that morning, it was entirely worth it. He, at one point, even let you turn on the lamp—on the dimmest setting, and only for a moment—to fully see him. You had an initial wave of shock at just how skeletal he was, but… the talking had helped. You were more amused than anything else, especially with how apprehensive he seemed at revealing his appearance. It was sweet.

As light slowly began to encroach over the morning, you knew it was time to wrap it up. Though he wasn’t outwardly anxious in his facial expression or tone, you could see him looking over his shoulder periodically at the brightening sky. You, too, knew it was going to be the time to get ready for work soon. Taking a deep breath, you stretched and gathered up your lamp and book.

“I’m guessing you need to get back so you’re not seen,” you said. He grimaced slightly.

“it’s _reel_ tiring to have to hide, especially when we’re getting along so _swimmingly_.” You groaned loudly. There had been a lot of this after he realized how much you hated puns. You did have to stuff down a smile, though; it made you feel nostalgic, if not happy that he was enjoying your company as much as you enjoyed his. “but i suppose you’re right. i was wondering if i could ask something else of you—for saving your life and all?”

“Of course; I didn’t exactly have to work for that first one.”

“wouldja mind… coming back every once in a while to talk? your grandfather used to tell me what was going on with the surface, and i’d like to stay informed.” He then gave a wink. “plus, it’d make me _happy as a clam_ to keep talking to ya.”

You groan-laughed, reaching over to give a gentle shove of his arm. When had you gotten this close to him? “ _Y_ _es_ ,” you sighed, as if it were some great burden. “I suppose I can for you saving my life, even if I’ll have to hear those puns. I work in the city nearby during the week, but I usually come here on the weekends to help out my parents. Would next Saturday night work?”

“it _shore_ -ly would. what day is it today?”

“Oh,” you hummed. You realized that he probably wouldn’t need to keep track of days. “It’s Monday morning now. So on the sixth night from now.”

“ _buoy,_ sounds like i’ll be _cruising_ in lonesome waters for a while-” You cut him off with a deadpan stare, causing him to laugh. He then grinned mischievously. “so you’ll come back, you promise?”

“Promise,” you agreed with a grin. You then, in a bit of boldness, added: “It’s a date.”

He grinned wider than ever. “well, that’s just _swell_.”

You resisted the urge to push him off the dock, and instead, said your goodbyes.

You watched him slip into the water, the ripples around him gently hued by the early morning sun. As he waved goodbye and gave a playful flip of his tail out of the water, you felt a burst of warmth within you. Even with the loss you were going through, it seemed your grandfather has given you, however accidentally, this one last gift. You couldn’t help but feel excited—if not grateful—to make this new friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you guys don't mind too much reading a chapter that's largely not the reader or Sans!  
> I hope the shift in perspective wasn't too confusing of a change.  
> The "poem" included is actually a song by Thrice, called [ “Kings on the Main”](%E2%80%9C). They did a whole water-based album that I *highly* recommend.  
> Thank you all for reading, and if you'd like to read more of this in the future, please let me know! Otherwise I'll dream up the rest for my own head-movie viewing :')


End file.
